I Hear the Bells
by hionlife
Summary: Sometimes it’s a good day to die, and sometimes…it’s a good day to jump off a cliff. What happens when it's all over. Post Series, AU.
1. Chapter 1

General Disclaimer: I own nothing but an old pick-up and some useless textbooks. I know nothing. Timelines and details are not my thing, so your belief may have to be suspended. This could go after Devil's Trap or not. I imagine it not to be though. Assuming they all survived that and found the demon later on. This would be after that. Vaguely inspired by Sam's "I'd sleep for a month" line in that episode I can't remember the name of. This should have three parts but I make no guarantees on the next two. Here it is, maybe you like it, maybe you don't (Yoakam :)) Let me know either way.

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**I Hear the Bells**

-------------------------

After.

The demon is gone.

John is dead and Dean is broken.

Sam sleeps.

Sometimes, he sleeps for sixteen or eighteen hours a day, just because he can. It's a dark, dead sleep in which hours are lost with a mere blink. There are no nightmares anymore. Somehow, his brain knows that it's over.

Killing the demon sort of went exactly as he'd always expected it would. There was blood and guns. Nothing new for them. There's just vague snapshots left in his mind of the fight itself. But he can remember after.

Sam remembers standing there with the Colt warming his fingers, having fired that one, fatal shot to end the demon and everything they'd ever known, and staring at Dean.

His brother had this look like he'd gone blind. His eyes kept shifting a little to the left of whatever he was looking at.

They didn't even realize Dad was gone right away. Didn't even realize it until they got to the hospital and the doctors stood there in their white jackets, shaking their heads.

All Sam can remember feeling is disappointment.

Like, oh…that's it?

No, really…that's it?

--------------------------

There was a lot that happened in between all that and ending up at a motel in the middle of Kansas, sleeping away whole days, but Sam doesn't trouble himself to remember it. It doesn't really matter.

Finally, finally, he just gets to sleep.

"Sam?"

Sam opens his eyes. Dean is kneeling at his eye level next to the bed. The curtains are open, letting bright, white, afternoon sunlight slant in. The TV is on, a news channel.

"I'm going to the store," Dean says. "We need some stuff."

Sam opens his mouth. "Oh."

"Okay?" Dean asks, eyebrows raised. "Do you want anything?"

Sam pulls the covers higher. "Sleep."

Dean smiles a little. "Yeah. Alright." He stands and pats Sam on the shoulder before heading for the door.

Sam realizes he's about to leave with the TV still on and the curtains open. Can't sleep like that.

"Hey," he calls out.

As Dean turns around, Sam notices that he's limping pretty heavily though and he forgets about the curtains.

"What'd you do?" he asks.

"When?"

"Your knee," Sam tells him.

"Oh." Dean gets that look like he's gone blind again, dull eyes focused on the bedpost next to Sam's head. "The demon, Sammy, you know…"

That was a while ago, Sam thinks. It feels like forever ago. And he doesn't remember a thing about Dean being hurt.

"Right." He nods to cover his confusion. "Thought it got better."

"No." Dean turns for the door again. "Probably won't."

Sam finds that limp painful to see.

Once Dean is gone, he sits up and pushes the covers back. He shoves them away with his feet until they fall off the foot of the bed.

He has, he decides, been sleeping long enough.

--------------------------

When Dean returns from the store that day, it's to see Sam sitting at the small table by the window, showered and dressed.

"You're up," Dean says in surprise.

"Yep." Sam smiles. He'd gotten up and showered, dressed, read the newspaper, and promptly thrown up when he saw the date. Thought it was still May for some reason. Telling Dean he's lost almost two months is probably not a good idea though.

"Great." Dean grins in genuine enthusiasm. "Good. Are you hungry? I got some sandwiches and chips. Do you want something else? 'Cause I could always get something else."

"No, this is good."

Dean watches him for a moment, gauging his sincerity. "Okay." He drops into the chair across from Sam and starts to pull things out of the bags. "I didn't bug you before, did I? When I woke you up?"

"No. Just wasn't tired anymore."

"Good." Dean grins and pushes a sandwich across the table toward Sam. "Great."

Sam figures "good" and "great" must be his two new favorite words.

He eats everything Dean gives him and damn if it doesn't taste _good_.

He can't help but wonder what Dean has been doing for two months though. And what he plans to do now it's all over.

Dean wipes his mouth clean and tosses his trash into the wastebasket.

"Now what?" Sam asks.

"I got to call Bobby back," Dean says, already reaching for his phone.

"No." Sam shakes his head, still loosening sleep from his mind. "I mean, _now_ what?" He gestures with his hands, meaning the future.

"Oh." Dean pauses and sets the cell phone down. "Well, uh, whatever you want, I guess."

Only thing is, Sam isn't sure what he wants anymore.

--------------------------

Dean isn't hunting at all. He isn't going to bars, isn't doing much of anything really.

And the scary thing, Sam notices, is that he doesn't seem to _want_ to do anything.

He seems perfectly content to just hang around the motel. It's like someone's hit the pause button, freezing him in this one place.

"Shouldn't we be doing something?" Sam asks him one day, having grown bored with the TV.

Dean lays the newspaper down. "Like what?"

"I don't know." Sam shrugs. "Something."

"How about a movie?" Dean suggests, flipping to another page in the paper. "They've got times in here."

Sam stares at him. "I don't mean right now. I'm talking about life, Dean. Isn't there something you want to do?"

Dean barely considers this. "Might do some hunting."

"But don't you want, I mean, wouldn't you like--"

"To be normal?"

"Yes." Sam nods. "Yeah. We're done now, right? We don't have to do this anymore."

"You want to go back to school don't you?"

Sam considers this, considers the fact that it's _Dean_ asking him this. He's wasted two months already sleeping, when he could've been getting started with normal again.

"Yeah. Yeah, I do."

"Then do it." Dean shrugs easily.

"What about you?"

"I'm not going to school."

"But you could get a job, Dean. A real job and a house. Doesn't that sound nice?" Sam sits up straighter. He can see how this could all work out for them.

"A real job?" Dean laughs, somewhere between a bark and a cough. "I'm twenty-six years old, Sammy, and I've had exactly three "real" jobs, none of which lasted longer than a couple of months. I'd be lucky if McDonald's hired me. And a house? Do you know a bank that'll spot me that loan? Or, hey, maybe I'll just put it on the VISA."

It's the first time Dean's been meanly sarcastic to him in awhile. Sam can't help but laugh.

"What?" Dean snaps.

"Nothing." Sam laughs. "It's just, you're right. God, I'm stupid." He can see the flaws in his plan now.

But even clearer than that, he can see the lasting legacy John Winchester has left. He has raised children that will never be able to live in the "real" world. Even if they want too.

People save up their whole lives to buy houses and work all their lives to get good jobs. And they have nothing. They scarcely even exist in that world.

Sam can't even imagine Dean in some nine to five type job. Dean in a suit. Dean in a cubicle. Dean trying to fix a jammed copy machine.

Sam cracks up laughing again.

"What?" Dean asks, softer this time. The corners of his lips curve up in amusement.

"Just put the house on the VISA." Sam laughs. "No one will notice that charge."

"Yeah." Dean smiles and then starts to laugh. He leans back in the chair and rubs his sore knee. "Yeah."

"You'd look good in the McDonald's uniform, Dean."

"Hell yeah, I would."

Sam grins.

This, he could live with.

--------------------------

He heads out to Stanford the next week, anyway. He has an appointment with the dean to discuss his extended leave of absence and possible re-enrollment. He doesn't expect anything to come of it, but it's worth doing.

Before he leaves, Dean tells him he's going to work on that white picket fence thing. Sam laughs.

He takes the Impala to California by himself, Dean for some reason opting to stay back at the motel in Kansas.

It feels good to be out on his own, stretching his legs. The California sun is bright as ever and he stops before his meeting to walk along the beach for awhile. It reminds him of Jess, gives him a sense of calm and safety. It makes him wonder, again, why he wasted two months sleeping.

The meeting goes well. Sam explains about Jess's death and Dad's disappearance and subsequent death while the dean nods with an apprehensive frown etched into her features.

"I'm concerned," she finally says. "That you may not yet be ready to return."

"I'm ready," Sam reassures her. "I can do this." He leaves off the "I _need_ this" part, in order to put forth a façade of sanity.

After a bit more nervous conversation she decides he can return with full scholarship reinstated.

Sam waits until he's outside in the car to freak out.

He calls Dean and tells him.

"Holy hell." Dean whistles. "What'd you do to convince him?"

"Her," Sam says.

"Oh." Sam can hear Dean smirking across the line. "I see."

"Whatever, Dean. God, can you believe it?"

"I'm happy for you," Dean says. "I'm glad you're happy, man."

"Can you believe this?" Sam asks again.

"Yeah." Dean laughs. "I can."

"Full scholarship, Dean! I can finish."

"I know, Sammy, I know. You're going to chill out before you drive anywhere, right?"

"Yeah." Sam breathes, trying, and not succeeding in drawing the smile from his face. "I can't believe this. Seriously, Dean. Can you believe it?"

"Yeah," Dean replies calmly. _It's you._ "Wouldn't expect any less."

-------------------------

When Sam gets back to Kansas, it's early evening. Dean limps out to meet him, shadow stretched long across the parking lot.

"Feeling good?" he asks, slapping Sam on the back and laughing.

"Yeah." Sam grins.

Dean reaches into the backseat to grab Sam's bags. "Hungry?"

"Always." Sam follows his brother back to the motel room.

Dean seems to have gotten older somehow, in the few short days he'd been away. It might be the limp, Sam considers, or the light. But probably, it's the thought of being alone as he goes back to school.

"Hey," he calls to Dean. "Any progress on the picket fence?"

Dean laughs. "Not in this lifetime."

The TV is on again, CNN or something, as Sam steps into the room. A pot of macaroni and cheese sits on the hot plate.

"Dinner." Dean grins, removing the pot from the hot plate and setting it on the table in front of Sam.

"Aren't you going to eat?" Sam asks.

"Already did." Dean waves his hand flippantly. "So, how'd everything go?"

"Good," Sam answers slowly. He shoves a forkful of macaroni and cheese in his mouth. "Already got my classes scheduled."

"How to be a Lawyer 101?"

"Yeah." Sam pauses. "But…I don't know."

Dean leans forward intently. "Don't know what?"

"Law school. It doesn't feel right anymore."

"Why not?"

Sam shrugs. "I don't know. I just…I'm not like them."

"You don't want to fit in with the stuffy old men anymore?" Dean grins.

"Yeah, I guess. There's just so many limitations on what you can do, to help. I'm not sure it's worth it. And most of those old men don't even know what they're doing. They're just walking around--"

"Noses in the air?"

"Yeah." Sam nods emphatically.

"So?" Dean shrugs.

"So…"

"So, shake 'em up. _You_ know what you're doing. You know how to get around red tape. Beat the hell out of them. Just because you didn't have some white collar upbringing doesn't mean you're less than anybody."

"Really?"

"I wouldn't say it if I didn't mean it."

Sam smiles. It's reassuring, but at the same time, he isn't sure what to do with this Dean, so encouraging and positive. He keeps waiting for the mask to crack.

And a few weeks later, it does.

-------------------------

tbc


	2. Chapter 2

A/N:  
-You all have just reviewed me right out of my comfort zone. That's a good thing. :) Thanks for taking the time. Sorry I didn't get to reply to everybody, been sick and stuff.  
-Once again, on the time line...I don't even know. Just pretend it fits somewhere. Also, I may have gone a little nutty with the italics on this one. Emphasis and all.  
-I forgot to mention that "I Hear the Bells" is an awesome song by Mike Doughty.  
-Thanks again for reading. I hope you all like this chapter.

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**I Hear the Bells**

-------------------------

The demon is still gone forever.

John is still dead and Dean is still broken.

But Sam is awake now and he's ready to go.

He's packing what he needs to head for California.

"You should come with me."

"Why?" Dean asks, sitting at the foot of one of the beds, tying his shoes.

"You're not doing anything else," Sam reasons.

"You can't handle it without me?" Dean asks. "Seems like you did okay last time."

Sam pauses and frowns. "Yeah, I can. I just wanted you to come out there with me. Get away from here."

"Nothing wrong with here." Dean shrugs and lets his feet hit the floor.

"No, but you can't spend the rest of your life in this motel room."

"I hadn't planned on it."

"Then come with me. For old times' sake."

"Old times was just a few months ago, Sam."

"Whatever, Dean. I want you to come, okay?" Sam says it as plainly as possible, because sometimes you have to knock Dean in the head with something to make him understand it. Especially when it comes to feelings.

Dean gets that look like he's gone blind again, eyes shifting about the room without really focusing on anything. "I can't."

"Why not?" Sam asks.

Dean looks down and rubs at his sore knee. He shakes his head.

"Dean?" Sam asks, concerned now. He moves closer and sits next to his brother on the bed. "Dean?"

For a long moment, he thinks Dean isn't going to say anything at all. The TV is on. Sam's pretty sure at this point that it's always on. He gives Dean a few more seconds before shifting his weight forward, preparing to stand.

"I don't know what to do."

Sam sits back. "What?"

"I don't know what to do anymore, Sammy." Dean swallows hard and clenches his fists in the loose material of his jeans.

"I-I don't know either," Sam stutters.

If their family was an army, and they very nearly were, Dad would have been the lieutenant. Without his leadership, without his command, they flounder.

But Sam wants other things. He always has.

"You slept for two months, you know that?" Dean looks up and smiles a little. "I wish I could do that. Shutdown for a little while and wake up when I'm ready."

"Dean, I…" Sam trails off, unsure what to say. He wants to tell Dean that sleeping like he did isn't exactly healthy, but neither is this, whatever Dean is doing.

"I'm not sure I can do this." Dean shakes his head. "Not without Dad."

A spike of fear runs through Sam's heart. "Hunting?" he asks hopefully, because the alternative, _life_, is unthinkable.

To Sam's relief, Dean nods, rubbing his knee again.

"Then don't," Sam says easily, remembering Dean's response to his wanting to go back to school.

"It's not that easy."

"It could be."

Dean just shakes his head.

"Come to California with me," Sam says again. "We could find an apartment or something."

"I hate apartments," Dean replies darkly.

"What?" Sam laughs nervously. "What are you talking about?"

Dean answers him with silence again.

Sam forces himself to take a deep breath. "Just think about it?" he asks. "An apartment in California. I could go to school and you could do whatever you want. Anything in the world."

"I don't _want_ to do anything," Dean says. He picks up the TV remote and thumbs the volume up a few notches. A newsman drones on about the weather in Florida.

"Dean? Dean?" Sam repeats himself louder to gain his brother's attention back. But when that doesn't work, he walks over to the TV and turns it off. He stands in front of it to block the remote.

"Move," Dean says dangerously.

Sam crosses his arms. "No."

"Damn it, Sam. Move." Dean stands slowly, knee joint aching and stretching.

"No."

"_Sam_."

"Talk to me."

"Move."

"I _dare_ you." Sam smirks.

Dean scoffs. "You…" He has been gotten.

Sam smiles, knowing it. "I _dare_ you to tell me what you want out of life."

"NOTHING!" Dean roars with such sudden ferocity that Sam rocks back on his heels and squints his eyes shut.

"There's nothing, Sam! I wanted the demon dead and I wanted Dad back, but that's over. It's done! I wanted you to be safe, Sam. That's all. And I wanted you to be happy. But that's over. It's all _done_. _I'm_ done!" The anger leaves his words and his knee buckles awkwardly as he sits back down. "I'm tired too," he adds quietly.

Sam opens his eyes. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be. Don't you be _sorry_ now."

"Okay." Sam nods after a moment. "Fine. Will you come to California with me?"

"One track mind," Dean mumbles sardonically.

Sam ignores this. "Will you?"

"No, Sam. Stop asking."

"I wish you would."

"I wish you would shut up, but, clearly, that's not going to happen."

Sam purses his lips and sits on the bed next to his brother. Dean flips the TV back on. They're talking about the weather on the west coast now.

"You know," Sam says carefully. "It's okay to be upset."

"I'm not upset, Sammy. I don't _get_ upset." Dean pauses. "I'm freakin' pissed."

"Why?" Sam asks, struggling to understand.

"I don't know anymore."

Melancholy is a bad fit on Dean. And Sam realizes that for all his words and volume, Dean _isn't_ angry. Not at all. And also that he's never _not_ been angry.

Dean is right about one thing. There is nothing. Nothing to replace that anger but a big, gaping hole. The fire has been put out.

"Hey," Sam starts, inspired. "Remember that scene in the Blues Brothers where they play at that bar? The one with the chicken wire?"

"Bob's Country Bunker," Dean supplies in a monotone, not looking away from the TV.

"Yeah, Yeah." Sam nods with enough enthusiasm for both of them. "And they play "Stand by Your Man," remember that?"

Dean shifts a glance his way. "I hope there's a point coming up soon."

"All the cowboys start crying, really, really bawling and stuff."

"Point?"

Sam takes a breath. "Even the toughest cowboys have to cry sometimes."

Dean doesn't say anything for a moment, but then he turns and fixes Sam with a steady glare. "They were drunk."

Sam flounders for words. "I…well…yeah, but you're missing the point. And you're ruining my story."

"Metaphor," Dean corrects.

"What_ever_, Dean." Sam sighs, frustrated. "Can't you ever just shut up and listen?"

"Can't you ever just _shut up_?" Dean returns.

If Dean won't talk to him and won't listen to him, Sam has one last ditch suggestion. "Maybe," he says carefully. "You should go talk to someone."

Dean bristles and shifts away. "Maybe _you_ should."

Sam closes his mouth.

That is, he considers, a fairly good point.

-------------------------

Sam can't imagine his Dad without the demon, in the same way that he can't imagine life without Dean as his brother.

He's almost, almost, a little bit glad that Dad died, because Dad without the demon is impossible. It's like a bus driver without a bus. No fuel to move him forward. Not even he and Dean would have been enough. They never had been, after all.

But Sam's okay with it.

Dad can have his peace now. He can rest.

Dean is a lost soldier though. He can't have a normal life and can't live the other one anymore.

It makes Sam insanely nervous to leave him alone, but he can't stop. He'd be waiting forever for Dean to settle himself. And no matter what his mindset, Sam knows his brother wouldn't want anything sacrificed for him.

"Stay here," he says, one last time as Dean closes the trunk on the last of his bags.

"Can't," Dean replies simply. He shoulders the last duffel and heads for the building Sam's dorm is in.

Sam hurries after him, following up the stairs at Dean's slower pace. "Please?"

He tries for the puppy dog eyes, but Dean just shakes his head.

Sam steps in front of him, forcing him to stop on the landing between floors. "Dean, you were the one that always wanted us to be a family. Now, I'm asking you--"

"Half that family is gone, Sam!"

"Yeah, but we could still--"

"No," Dean interrupts sternly. "Honest now, Sam. Do you really want this for me or for you?"

"I-I just want things to be okay," Sam stutters. "I don't want you to leave here angry. I mean, Dad's only been gone a few months really. Maybe I should take this semester off. We could--"

"No. No way." Dean twists away and starts back up the stairs. "You got back in. We're here. You're staying. I'm not about to let you drop out because you're thinking…whatever the hell it is you're thinking." He waves a hand through the stale dorm air in a loopy motion.

"Dean, I'm just worried."

"What's your room number again?"

"I wish you would at least go stay with Bobby or somebody for awhile."

"Twenty-eight, wasn't it? Or twenty-six? These doors have letters too."

"I'm sure he wouldn't mind and he could probably use help fixing up some of those cars."

"Are there girls in this building?"

"Wouldn't you like that? Working on cars, maybe even doing a little hunting?"

Dean turns around and shoves Sam roughly in the shoulder, dropping the pretense of casual conversation. "Quit tryin' to make plans for me," he growls.

"Dean..."

"Stop it, Sam. If you don't want me to leave here angry, just shut your mouth."

Sam nods stiffly. The last thing he'd ever want is for things to end like they did last time he left for school, even if it means biting his tongue and letting Dean go. "It's twenty-eight A."

"Perfect." Dean grins and throws the nearest door open, letting it bounce back off the wall.

The room is a double. And someone's already put their bags on the bed by the window.

"Sam Winchester!" An animated voice says. "What are the odds?"

Sam turns slowly to see Mike Bridger, his roommate from freshman year, standing in the doorway to the bathroom.

"Hey…Mike," he greets slowly.

Mike was a nice enough guy, but sometimes overly friendly in a way that could grate on Sam's introverted nerves.

Mike comes over and shakes his hand enthusiastically. "Seriously, man, what are the odds?"

"I don't know Mike." Sam grins tightly. "Pretty slim."

"Who's this?" Mike asks, moving on and already reaching to shake Dean's hand.

"My brother, Dean," Sam introduces. "Dean, this is Mike. We were roommates freshman year."

Sam had told most people that cared to ask the standard drifter line, how he didn't keep in touch with his brother, how they weren't close.

Mike does a good job of hiding his surprise. "Good to meet you."

"How's it going?" Dean nods politely. He slides past them into the room to deposit Sam's bags on the other bed and check things out.

"Great." Mike grins easily. "Great. Listen, Sam. I heard you had a rough time of it last year. We all knew about Jessica, but Zach, I think it was, said something about your father?"

Mike is from New England. Sam is suddenly reminded by the way he says "father" through his nose instead of his mouth.

"He passed away a few months ago," Sam says to Mike.

Across the room, Dean's shoulders stiffen. Sam remembers how he'd always hated the phrase "passed away." He said it sounded like a foul in football. It was a chicken way of saying somebody died.

"Wow." Mike frowns. "That's terrible to hear, man. I'm sorry. Alcohol, right?"

Tactful, Mike is not. Sam catches Dean's eyes for just a second, not long enough to read any emotion.

"No." Sam shakes his head and looks away. "It was an accident. He, um, wasn't drinking…anymore." It's a weak attempt to restore his father's memory. He deserves so much more than that, Sam knows.

"What about you?" he asks, diverting the questions to Mike. Mike had been in his same year, gearing up for the long haul of med school. "How'd you end up a year behind?"

"Took a year off." Mike shrugs. "I wasn't ready to slave away for a decade without a break. I mean, what if I died the day after graduation? All that time and I never would have really lived, you know?"

"Yeah." Sam nods. "So, what'd you do?"

Dean brushes past him. "I'm going to get the rest of your stuff."

"Oh." Sam moves out of his way. "Thanks." He turns back to Mike, who's grinning big again.

"Europe," Mike says.

It takes Sam a second to realize he's back among people who actually do things like taking a year off their Ivy League school to travel across Europe.

It takes him twenty minutes to realize he doesn't have any more stuff in the car. He doesn't have any more stuff, period.

"Excuse me," he says to Mike and dodges out into the hall, searching the milling crowd for a tall head of blond hair. He hops down the stairs two at a time and bursts out the front doors onto the sidewalk.

The sun is bright and new students are swarming all over the place, but all Sam can see is the empty space where the Impala had been parked.

This time, he realizes sickeningly, he isn't the one that gets to leave without saying goodbye.

------------------------

He calls Dean every hour on the hour for the first week.

Mike, having picked up that something's wrong, points out that insanity is doing the same thing over and over and expecting a different result.

Sam stops calling.

The next day, exactly a week into classes and eight days since Dean left, he gets a voicemail. It's a number he doesn't recognize, but he calls it back anyway, hunched down in the back row of the classroom. He nearly drops his phone when Dean's voice comes over the line.

"Working on that fence," is all he says.

Sam laughs out loud in the middle of his history class and doesn't even care, because he knows what he's doing and he could beat the hell out of any of these people anyway.

It's enough, for a little while, to know that Dean is okay.

But that knowledge doesn't last Sam for very long. His classes, instead of settling into routine, become anxious hours, spent glancing at his phone every other second.

He keeps expecting a call from a hospital somewhere, or a police station. He imagines Dean, in some of his more creative scenarios, bursting into an otherwise calm bank lobby, gun drawn, because Dean is just _so_ capable of something like that. He walks that line, but without someone there to rein him in, Sam fears he'll spin off into destruction.

And Sam also knows, as the number of unanswered voicemails grows, just how capable Dean is of disappearing entirely.

------------------------

tbc


	3. Chapter 3

A/N:  
-Thanks again to everybody that reads. Makes me smile. I think I got to reply to everybody, but either yahoo is eating my emails or the alerts aren't working, cause I just realized there's some reviews that I never got emails for. Sorry if I missed you.  
-Recently watched the movie "Smoke Signals" in a communications class, so there's a few references from that and a quote (which I really butchered by the way). If you've seen the movie, you'll recognize them, otherwise, don't worry about it. Doesn't really matter in context.  
-Granted, this is not _the end_ of thier story, I just wanted to give them a sort of happy ending. A possible end all. Sorry if it feels like a stretch. I'll say, not to be...proud or something, but this is probably one of my favorite things I've written. I hope you liked it too.

-------------------------

**I Hear the Bells**

-------------------------

The demon is just a dead smear in the rearview mirror.

John is finally at rest and Dean is who knows where.

Sam's sick.

Psychological worry literally made physical.

Strep throat is going around the dorms and the nurse quarantines Sam to his dorm room for a minimum of ten days. Three days in, he's climbing the walls, sweating with a fever, and chewing on throat lozenges like their candy.

He tries calling Dean again.

There's no answer, of course, and the message is the same as it's always been. Dean hasn't changed it yet. Not in the months after, probably not even in years.

Just the sound of his brother's voice, even and well and making himself available to help all sorts of people when he can't even answer the phone for his own brother, makes Sam's fevered blood boil.

"Hey Dean." He starts out calmly enough but his voice is hoarse and rough, breaking on every other word. "If you get this then you've probably gotten all of the other messages, too. And I have to say, bro, this disappearing crap is getting a little old. It's just like what Dad used to do and you _hated_ that. So don't do this to me, okay? Don't _do_ this. Dad's gone Dean, and you're _it_ so just answer your goddamn phone already. I don't care what you're doing. I'm just worried. I--"

The phone beeps monotonely, cutting him off.

Sam sighs and tosses the phone onto his bed. He shuffles into the bathroom to splash some water on his face. It's hot in the dorm. Or maybe it's just the fever.

The faucet is loud and Sam's ears are ringing, but he still catches the vibrating buzz of his phone over that. He stumbles back into the other room with little grace.

"Dean?" He breathes roughly into the receiver.

"Hey Sammy," comes the soft reply.

Sam heaves a heavy sigh of relief and flops back onto his bed. "Damn you."

"I'm sorry," Dean says, sincere and quiet in a way that Sam doesn't often hear. He takes pause by it.

"It's alright." He breathes deeply, anger fading away with the reassurance that Dean is okay. Everything is okay.

"You don't have to cry." The familiar, teasing tone is back in Dean's voice.

"I'm not crying," Sam squeaks indignantly. "It's strep."

"Strep Throat?" Dean asks.

"No, Dean. Strep knee. It's this really terrible disease I have."

"Shut up, man. Are you okay? Are you at school?"

"Where else would I be?" Sam sits up slowly, realizing he should be the one asking the questions. "Where are you?"

"Indiana," Dean answers offhandedly. "How sick are you? You sound like hell."

"I'm fine. Just…a little warm."

"Did you go to a doctor?"

"Yeah, they gave me some stuff."

"Do I need to come get you?"

"This isn't kindergarten, Dean." Sam sighs. "Where would we go anyway?"

There's a long pause in which Sam can hear Dean moving around, maybe walking somewhere.

"I have a fence," he finally says.

"What?"

"It ain't white and it ain't picket."

"What?" Sam stands up. "You bought a house?" His fevered brain doesn't find putting a house on a fake credit card quite so ridiculous.

"I didn't buy a house, Sam. How the hell would I do that?"

"You _stole_ a house?"

"Sam?" Dean's voice is equal parts concern and exasperation. "You can't steal a house, you dork. That's not possible. Would have done it a while ago otherwise. Listen, I'm getting in the car right now. Give me a day to get there."

"You really don't need to. I can't go anywhere. I'm quarantined."

Over the phone line, a car door creaks shut and a roar follows as the engine turns over.

"Hang up the phone, Sammy," Dean says. "Lay down. I'll be there in awhile."

Sam does what his brother says without thinking, not realizing he's severed the first contact he's had with Dean in about a month. But with the phone still in his hand, he allows himself to smile. Dean sounds better. And he's coming back.

-------------------------

When there's a knock on the door the next afternoon, Sam figures it's Mike with some food. His roommate had been staying with friends for the past few days, but stopped by every so often.

Sam takes his time getting to the door. Muscles and bones aching as he gets up from the bed. He reaches for the doorknob, but before he can touch it there is a faint clink and click and then the door pops open in front of him.

Dean stands on the other side, grinning, credit card in hand. "Those are some cheap ass locks," he says.

"Hey." Sam exhales. "Yeah."

Dean ignores his astuteness and stalks into the room. "So, where's your stuff? What do you need?"

Sam watches him moving about the room, tangible and right in front of him. It's suddenly hard to remember the weeks he spent worried that he'd never even hear from his brother again. "Dean," he says as loudly as his swollen throat will allow.

Dean stops what he's doing and turns around.

"It's good to see you," Sam says.

"Yeah." Dean nods, eyes soft. "Yeah. Look, Sam. I'm sorry about that. I just…I had some stuff."

Sam watches him, eyes widening. He knows. He had stuff too. He had two months in bed worth of stuff. It sure is something to hear Dean say it though.

"So." Dean claps his hands anxiously. "Are you ready? Got your beauty kit packed yet, princess?"

"Funny," Sam remarks, knowing well enough not to force any more conversation. He opens the closet and tosses a few changes of clothes onto the bed. "How long is this going to be?"

Dean gathers the clothes into a pile and shoves them into a duffel bag. "As long as you want."

"The nurse said I'm going to be sick another week, at least."

"What, is she psychic?"

"It's a virus thing."

"Yeah, I know. You better sleep in the car, 'cause I don't think camping is a good idea when you're sick."

Sam turns around. "Camping?"

"My fence." Dean grins.

Sam isn't sure he wants to know.

-------------------------

It turns out there are still people in the world that deal in land.

John Winchester helped and saved many a soul in his time. There were a lot of people that owed him a favor and more than one had offered him a chunk of land as payment. Backwoods people, who had nothing but their pride and their land, offered him the one thing they could in thanks. A few acres.

John couldn't say that he needed it, but refusing it was out of the question. He knew a thing or two about pride and payment, so he took the grants and tucked them away, hoping they'd serve a purpose at some point.

In death, this land was passed over to Dean.

They're in southern Indiana, driving down a narrow gravel road, passing fields and trees, the pattern only broken by the occasional grazing animal. It's early evening when Dean suddenly jerks the wheel hard to the right and goes off road, bumping through an open field of weeds and grass.

"What are you doing?" Sam yells hoarsely, bracing himself on the dash.

In response, Dean grins and stomps on the gas, throwing up dirt behind them as the tires struggle for traction.

The field closes in on a line of trees, but there's a well worn space in the middle and Dean steers through it. On the other side of the tree line, the field opens up again, vast on all sides, green and misty gray. In the center, looking small and remote is a blue, nylon tent.

Dean pulls up right next to it and parks there in the dry dirt.

Sam is starting to think that this isn't such a good thing.

"So…this is it?" he asks carefully.

"Yep." Dean climbs out of the car and takes a deep breath of air.

Sam climbs out after him, stretching stiff muscles. With a smile, he takes note of the split-rail fence that runs around the edge of the field. Beyond the fence, high, leafy, green trees are shadowed by the setting sun. The air is clear and crisp.

Sam smiles. "It's…nice."

"Such enthusiasm." Dean smirks. He circles around the car and ducks into the tent for a second, coming back out with some newspaper and a lighter.

"It's just not what I expected," Sam says.

Dean kneels by a circle of rocks in front of the tent, a well-established fire pit, and begins to crumple the newspaper to start a fire. "Yeah, well, people were getting on my nerves."

"You needed a break."

"I needed to get away before I ended up shooting somebody in the face," Dean says seriously.

Sam nods. "Understandable, but…I thought you hated camping?"

"It's an acquired taste." Dean smiles. "Would you rather sleep in the car?"

Sam glances around the open, airy field once more. "No, this is good."

"Sure?" Dean glances up as the first wisps of fire illuminate his face. His tone is that of parental concern and genuine kindness, rolled into one word.

Sam feels his throat swell for reasons that have nothing to do with a virus. It's so rare that people take such pause and care for each other. This is what family is supposed to be. It's all that they have anymore.

"Yeah," he finds himself saying. "This is perfect."

-----------------------

Its still late September warm, but the fire burns all night and their sleeping bags are those sub-zero temperature types.

It's better than sleeping in the dorm, Sam decides. His head has even cleared and his throat doesn't feel like hot sandpaper anymore.

"Morning." Dean grins as Sam emerges from the tent.

He joins his brother by the fire, sitting Indian style. "You know, Dean," Sam observes quietly. "This is really Zen of you."

"Zen my ass," Dean replies. "Want some Spam?"

Sam grins and takes the offered breakfast, along with a cup of coffee.

"Sleep alright?" Dean asks.

"Yeah." Sam nods. "I feel better."

"Psychic nurse said you were going to be sick another week."

"Guess her clairvoyance is on the repair."

"Guess so." Dean sits forward anxiously. "Hurry up and eat. I want to show you something."

"What?"

"Show," Dean repeats slowly. "Not tell."

Sam eats slower yet, chewing obnoxiously just to annoy him, but Dean is unfazed. He changes tactics. "So…" he starts, glancing about the field. "This is good?"

Dean eyes him suspiciously. "Yeah…"

"Yeah?"

"Better," Dean says decisively. "What about you?"

"I was asking about you."

"Yeah, well I'm asking about you."

Sam sighs. "I'm good, Dean, really. School is great. I've just been worried about you."

"Yeah, well, you don't need to be." Dean tosses the rest of his coffee into the grass and sets the mug down. "Listen Sammy. We're not going to talk about this. Probably not ever. Dad was Dad. For all his faults, he did what he had to do." He looks down and shakes his head. "I just don't want to _talk_ about it anymore, alright? It's over. We're okay."

Sam watches his brother closely, a slow realization coming over him. "You forgive him," he says, his tone not quite a question.

Dean squares his shoulders. "_I_ did that a long time ago."

-----------------------

As soon as he's done eating, Dean hauls Sam up and takes off across the field, dew grass soaking through their shoes.

There's something different about Dean. Good different, lighter different. But as his brother clambers over the fence, Sam notices the most glaring change.

"Dean?" he asks slowly.

"What's up?" Dean turns to make sure Sam is following, but his brother is just standing there, staring.

"You're wearing shorts," Sam says slowly.

"What about it?"

"You never wear shorts."

"So?" Dean shrugs defensively.

Sam smiles. "Nothing, man, nothing."

"Shut up, Sammy." Dean turns back toward the trees. "They're…convenient."

Sam laughs quietly, ducking under a branch. "Where are we going anyway?"

"You'll see."

"This isn't going to be like the time with the Honeysuckle bush and the rabbits, is it? 'Cause I still have nightmares."

Dean has to stop walking to laugh, bent over with his hands on his knees. "Oh, man. _That_ was funny."

"Traumatizing," Sam counters.

"They were rabbits, not werewolves."

"I was five."

"_Rabbits_, dude."

"You knew I was scared of them."

"You got to face your fears sometime, Sammy."

Sam stops to stand beside Dean and squints up into the trees and sun. "Dad tore you apart for that one."

Dean smiles wistfully. "Yeah, he did." After a beat, he goes on. "I guess werewolves were okay. You just weren't supposed to be exposed to the evils of wild rabbits."

"Dad's logic at work."

"Writes like Yoda, thinks like Chewbacca."

_Wrote_, Sam thinks quietly. _Thought_. Out loud, he says, "Chewbacca was really smart."

"So was Dad."

"In his own way."

"Not unlike Chewbacca." Dean laughs again, but starts back through the trees.

He's still limping, Sam notices, watching him go, but not near so bad as before. It's odd, now that he can see Dean's knee. It looks fine, perfectly normal, not even a scar.

Some hurts, apparently, can remain hidden, even as they heal.

----------------------

The dirt is firm clay beneath their shoes and the sun slants spotty through the trees. Up ahead, the branches open up though and Sam can see an edge where the dirt drops off at a cliff and hints of a valley beyond that. It's a view. Forest spreading out for miles beyond the edge, trees clustered like heads of broccoli.

"Here," Dean says with a nod. He veers a little to the left ahead of Sam and slips out of his shoes, bares toes leaving prints in the mud as he continues toward the edge.

"Dean?" Sam asks.

Dean ignores him and pulls his t-shirt over his head, discarding it on the forest floor, before quickening into a run.

Sam realizes his intentions just seconds too late.

Dean runs right off the edge of dirt, hanging in dead air for one long second and then falling, disappearing from Sam's view.

"Dean!" Sam yells. His heart suddenly thunders with fear and adrenaline as he dives after his brother, skidding to a halt at the edge, dirt crumbling away beneath his shoes. "Dean!"

A splash echoes up from below and then laughter, bouncing up off the trees and rocks.

Sam looks down and nearly faints with relief.

There's a large water hole, dark and deep, about thirty feet down, maybe even forty feet or more. It's hard to tell from above. It's a big jump, but apparently survivable.

Dean bobs in the water and thumps a fist against his chest. "Still tickin'."

"Lucky," Sam yells back, fear turning into annoyance. "You crazy bastard."

Dean laughs. "Scared you."

He did. He really did. And Sam's a little tired of being scared all the time.

_You got to face your fears sometime, Sammy_.

"What are you waiting for?" Dean yells, gesturing for Sam to come. "The water's fine."

Sam eyes the height warily. "Dean, I don't think…"

"Sammy, come on," Dean chides. He's grinning hugely, arms moving slowly to keep himself afloat. "You can do it."

When Sam hesitates a moment longer, Dean huffs impatiently. "Come _on_. You know, Sammy, sometimes it's a good day to die, and sometimes…it's a good day to jump off a cliff. _Today_ is a good day to jump off a cliff."

Sam laughs at Dean's echoing words. If there were any hikers around, even miles away, they could probably hear him too, the way the forest seems to catch his words and toss them around. "What the hell does that even mean?" Sam yells back.

"It means quit thinking about it, quit talking about it. Just _jump _already."

Sam nods, assessing the height one last time and taking a deep breath. "Alright." He moves back from the edge, steps out of his shoes, and leaves his t-shirt strewn on the ground beside them. The autumn sun hits him hot right between the shoulders as he begins to run. Bare toes sticky with mud, arms swinging, he hits the edge, and jumps.

-------------------------

"_Shall we forgive them for their excesses of warmth or coldness?  
Shall we forgive them for pushing or leaning, for shutting doors, for speaking through walls, or never speaking, or never being silent?  
…  
Do we forgive our fathers in our age or in theirs?  
Or in their deaths, saying it to them, or not saying it?  
…  
If we forgive our fathers…what is left?"_

–Thomas Builds-the-Fire, "Smoke Signals"

-----------------------

end...


End file.
